Chapter Six

M irella awoke to Effie’s sneezing. She turned toward her sister and saw Effie’s red nose and swollen eyes.

“Oh, no! Are you ill?”

Effie nodded, misery on her face. “I woke up a few hours ago and have tried to stay quiet so that you might be able to get enough rest. It is one of those nasty summer head colds. I felt something coming on last night at dinner and was hoping I was wrong.”

She rang for a servant and asked for hot water and extra handkerchiefs. Effie wasn’t hungry, so Mirella merely requested hot tea be sent up, with honey.

The tea arrived, and Effie was able to drink two cups of it while a maid helped Mirella dress for the day. She did her own hair, pulling it back in the chignon she favored.

“I am going down to breakfast and will tell Aunt Matty and Lady Benton that you are under the weather, then I will be back up to sit with you.”

Effie blew her nose loudly, shaking her head. “No, Mirella. There is no reason for you to be cooped up all day, just to watch me while I rest in bed. Besides, Daffy can keep me company.” Her sister stroked the cat, who was curled against her side.

Plans had been made the previous evening for Lord Bridgewater to take her, Effie, and Miss Feathers riding around Grasmere Lake, and Mirella said, “I do not wish to ride without you.”

“You know me. I usually get over a cold in a day. Two at most,” Effie reminded her. “There is no sense for you and Miss Feathers not to ride out with Lord Bridgewater and see some of the area.”

She looked at her sister doubtfully, and Effie’s jaw set. Of all the Strongs, Effie was the most stubborn. When her mind was made up, there was no changing it.

“I am determined you will not stay, Mirella. Go and enjoy yourself. Miss Feathers, too.”

“I will go to breakfast and inform the others, then I will come and check on you,” she promised. “If you are worse, I will stay behind.”

When she reached the breakfast room, Mirella saw she was the last to arrive.

“Forgive my tardiness, but Effie is ill.”

“I hope it is not anything too serious,” Aunt Matty said, concerned.

“It is merely a summer cold. As Effie herself said, she usually recovers fairly quickly. She reminded me of that very thing when I offered to stay with her today. Naturally, she refused me. Obviously, she will not be able to go riding with us, however. She will need to spend the day in bed.”

Miss Feathers said, “I will volunteer to stay home with Effie. I can sit and read while she is resting in bed and even catch up on my letter writing. There is no sense for you not to see the lake and the surrounding area, Lady Mirella.”

She bit her lip, thinking if the governess stayed behind, it would be only her and Lord Bridgewater on the excursion.

“That sounds like a wonderful compromise,” Lady Benton said. “Bridgewater, you can show Lady Mirella Grasmere Lake. I would also suggest stopping in the village for some gingerbread,” she told her nephew. Turning to Mirella, the countess added, “Grasmere is known for its gingerbread. You simply must try it.”

“Gingerbread is a particular favorite of Effie’s,” she said. “Though she doesn’t have much of an appetite now, she might perk up a bit if I do return with a treasured sweet.”

“Then it is settled,” declared Lord Benton. “I hope Lady Mirella will enjoy her tour of the area. Be sure to stop by St. Oswald’s, Bridgewater. The old church is fascinating.”

“I will,” the marquess said, avoiding looking at her.

She knew he was aware of the physical reaction she had had to him because she believed he, too, felt it, the same as she had. It worried her to be alone with him, but then again, they would be on their horses, riding around the lake and into the village. Surely, nothing untoward might happen on such an outing.

At least, Mirella hoped that would be the case.

They finished the meal, and Lord Bridgewater said, “Would it be convenient to leave now, my lady?”

“If you could give me half an hour, my lord. I wish to check on Effie again, and I will need to change into my riding habit.”

“Then meet me in the foyer. We can go down to the stables together.”

She excused herself and returned to the shared bedchamber. Her sister dozed in the bed, Daffy snuggled against her, and Mirella decided not to ring for a maid to assist her, thinking it might disturb Effie. Quietly, she changed from her gown into her riding habit, choosing a hat she believed to be rather smart with her ensemble.

As she prepared to leave the room, Effie stirred. Mirella went to the bed, and her sister looked up.

“Good. You are going riding, after all. Take in all the sights for me so that you might show them to me in a few days.”

“Miss Feathers has said she wishes to stay with you, Effie. She insisted.” Mirella smiled. “And she wore that stern, governess look. I simply could not tell her no.”

Effie laughed—and sneezed three times.

“We will take you both out once you are feeling better,” she assured her sister, bending and kissing Effie’s brow. “Now, get some rest.”

As she exited the bedchamber, Miss Feathers was coming down the corridor, carrying a book with her. Mirella told the governess that Effie had had a restless night and would most likely sleep most of the morning.

“Do not worry about your sister, my lady. If Lady Effie needs anything, I will be there to help her.”

“Thank you for staying with her. I appreciate it.”

Miss Feathers smiled brightly. “No sense in you having to miss out on the tour of the area just because your sister is ailing.”

She took her leave and went down the staircase, finding Lord Bridgewater waiting at the bottom of it for her. Just one look at the marquess, and her heart began thumping wildly against her ribs. Even her belly seemed to erupt with a bevy of butterflies fluttering madly.

“How is Lady Effie?” he asked as they went out the front door and headed to the stables.

“Her head is stuffy. She is blowing her nose quite a bit. She did not sleep well last night and will try to catch up on her rest today. Effie is rarely ill, but she always bounces back quickly. You will have to play tour guide again and take her and Miss Feathers around the lake and village if you are willing to do so.”

“She is a bright, inquisitive girl, isn’t she?”

“She is,” Mirella agreed. “Effie is the most loveable of all the Strongs. I hope you will forgive her impertinence.”

“I did not mind it. I found her quite refreshing. Although I have never attended the Season before, I truly believe she will have to learn to watch what she says around members of the ton .”

“Effie will make her come-out not this coming Season but the next,” Mirella informed the marquess. “That gives her a little more time in which to mature.” She chuckled. “Knowing Effie, she will continue to say what she thinks, not caring what Polite Society makes of her.”

Lord Bridgewater frowned. “The girl will have to understand that in order to acquire a husband, she cannot be too outspoken.”

His words rankled her. “Effie will be Effie. That is all there is to it, my lord. If there is a gentleman who disapproves of her forthright manner, then he is not the man for her. Besides, she is the daughter of a duke and sister to another one. No doubt, Effie will have a large line of suitors wishing to woo her.”

“The same could be said of you, Lady Mirella,” the marquess noted.

“Frankly, my lord, I do not worry about the number of suitors who will try to court me. I am looking for two things in a husband.”

Curiosity filled his face. “And what might those two things be?”

“The first is, I wish for a man of good character. The gentleman I wed will need to be honorable and truthful. He must value family. Family is extremely important to me. I have the support of a large, loving one, and I cannot imagine wedding a man who does not cherish family as I do.”

“And the second thing?” he asked.

As the stables came into sight, she said, “You will probably think me most foolish, but I am seeking a love match.”

“Love?” he barked out, startling her.

“Yes, my lord,” she said assertively. “I will wed a man whom I love, one who loves me, as well. This generation of Strongs is known for making love matches, and I will settle for nothing less.”

She stole a glance at him and saw his jaw set. Immediately, she wondered if this man would be capable of love. He already had been cast aside in his family, an afterthought to his brother. The marquess might not understand the true importance of family, much less have an idea how to give and receive love.

These thoughts captioned Mirella as far as thinking of Lord Bridgewater as husband material went. While there might be a physical attraction between them, that would not be enough for a successful marriage, in her mind. She would have to temper her feelings—and reactions—toward him.

A groom met them. “Going for a ride today, my lord? It’s a fine one for doing so.”

“Yes, we are,” Lord Bridgewater replied. Turning to her, he asked, “What kind of rider are you, my lady?”

She looked at the groom. “I was brought up in the saddle. I can ride any mount that you provide to me. I prefer mares because I think they have a better temperament, but I will leave the choice up to you, Sir.”

“Very well, my lady,” the groom said. “Apollo for you, my lord?”

The marquess nodded, and the groom left them to go and saddle their horses. Conversation between them ceased, with Lord Bridgewater striding off, hands behind his back, fingers locked, as he surveyed the land, his back to her.

Mirella decided her attraction to this man was a terrible idea. He barely seemed capable of decent conversation, much less open to the idea of love. She came to the conclusion that it was good she felt a pull toward him, though. She might feel an attraction to other men during the Season, but she could not let that dominate her thoughts, much less cloud her judgment. While she still believed desiring her spouse would be important, she wanted to build a solid foundation, alternating stones of friendship with love and respect.

The groom appeared, leading one horse, a large black that looked to be at least seventeen hands. She figured it must be Apollo, meant for Lord Bridgewater.

Another groom followed with a chestnut beauty. He brought the horse to her and said, “This is Lady, my lady. She has a sweet temperament, but she can also fly like the wind if you ask her to do so.”

Mirella stroked the horse’s nose. “It sounds as if we were meant for one another, Lady. I think we will have a perfectly wonderful ride together.”

She looked around for a mounting block and did not spy one. Before she could ask the groom for a hand up, Lord Bridgewater came toward her, saying, “I will assist you into the saddle, Lady Mirella.”

Suddenly, his hands captured her small waist, almost spanning it, and he lifted her with ease into the saddle. Mirella caught a whiff of bergamot, thanks to his nearness, and her heart raced, the feel of his hands still on her even after he had released her. She swallowed, taking up her reins, stroking Lady’s neck, trying to calm herself before the ride began. Horses were sensitive to the moods of their riders, and Mirella did not want to get off on the wrong foot with Lady.

In the meantime, Lord Bridgewater mounted his horse and said, “Follow me.”

He broke into a canter, and she nudged Lady’s flanks. The horse responded, and they quickly caught up to the marquess, riding beside him.

“We will ride to the lake first,” he told her.

That was the last conversation between them for the next few miles. As they rode, she took in the landscape surrounding them, finding it moving, very much like the guidebook described.

They reached Lake Grasmere, and he brought his horse to a stop. Mirella did the same, and they both stared out across the water and up to the fells and mountains which surrounded the picturesque valley.

“No wonder Mr. Wordsworth chose to live here. I believe he may be right when he said of Grasmere, ‘The most loveliest spot that man hath found.’”

“You read Wordsworth’s poetry?”

“I will admit that I had not read much poetry at all until we were destined to visit the Lake District. Aunt Matty gave both Effie and me Mr. West’s guidebook, along with a volume of Mr. Wordsworth’s poetry. I have found his poems to be quite stirring. Miss Feathers read some of them with us, pointed out why the poet’s work is so outstanding.”

He nodded brusquely. “Then you should also tackle Coleridge,” he suggested. “Samuel Taylor Coleridge is a close friend of Wordsworth’s. They wrote a collection together which you might enjoy. It is called Lyrical Ballads .”

“You sound very familiar with both their works.”

His face grew boyish as he said, “I might have been a career soldier, but at heart, I have always been an academic. I enjoy literature, poetry, in particular. Knowing the two men wrote of the area where Aunt Flora and Uncle Hugh resided gave their poems even more meaning to me.”

“Which of Mr. Wordsworth’s poems is your favorite?” she asked, wanting to gain more insight into the marquess.

He grew thoughtful. “From his earlier works? Tintern Abbey . From his time in Grasmere? Perhaps Ode: Intimations of Immortality . And what of you, Lady Mirella? Do you have a favorite?”

“I, too, enjoy that ode quite a bit, but I am most fond of I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud .”

“Let us continue on our way,” he said abruptly. “I need to take you to see The Lion and the Lamb and Old Lady at the Organ .”

The quick change of topics puzzled her. “Good heavens, what are those?”

He smiled for the first time, and new, wonderful sensations ran through Mirella, ones which she tried to fight.

And lost.

“It is that peak over there.”

She looked to where he pointed and frowned. “I am not quite certain I see either thing you referred to.”

His smile widened, further melting her heart, breaking down the walls of resistance she had put up. Those walls had not had time to set, though, and the marquess’ smile was magical, tearing the stones from the imaginary wall with ease.

“Because we are not in the correct position to observe those profiles. If we travel to one side, you will see the two animals lying together. When we venture to the other side, we get an entirely different view, and it actually does look like an old woman playing an organ.”

She laughed. “I will play the role of Doubting Thomas and not believe in those nicknames until I can see for myself. So, lead the way, my lord.”

His brows knit together. “You are not too tired, my lady? I thought we would need to rest a bit longer before we continued on.”

Mirella laughed. “I am used to being in the saddle for hours at a time at Shadowcrest,” she informed him. “Take me to the old woman first. We will save the animals for last.”

He wheeled his horse, and she followed him, curious about the nicknames she assumed locals had given the peak.

And despite wanting to tamp down her attraction to him, Mirella found her curiosity growing about this gruff, poetry-loving marquess.